Overwatch: Armour
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: There was a saying that armour wasn't worn solely on the body. And having served as Reinhardt's squire and done battle against Null Sector, Brigitte knew that saying to be true.


**Armour**

The first thing Brigitte noticed upon entering Watchpoint: Gibraltar, was how clean it was.

This place was meant to have been sealed. Entering this watchpoint, or heck, any former Overwatch base, was punishable under the auspices of the Petras Act. It had been seven years since Overwatch shut down, but heck, she'd been on the road with Reinhardt for a shorter amount of time, and her room back home had accumulated more dustballs than books. When she'd been there last Christmas, when she'd asked her mother how she'd let her room get so messy, she'd been curtly told that as long as she called it _her room_, it was her responsibility. And thus, her responsibility to clean it up. When she'd asked why papa couldn't just invent an automated cleaning dolly, mother had shoved the vacuum in her hand and told her that she couldn't expect any turkey until the room was spotless.

She wasn't sure if she'd forgiven her for that yet, even if that turkey had been as tasty as it always was. But, turkeys or no, she was in Watchpoint: Gibraltar, a place that was meant to be dirty, but wasn't. She was meant to be home, getting a degree at the University of Gothenburg, but wasn't. Null Sector was meant to have been a non-issue after the King's Row Uprising, but wasn't. And, right now, she was a member of Overwatch, yet…wasn't.

The quarters she'd been assigned had been left as clean as the rest of the base. That the door had the words **MCCREE **on it might have contributed to her feeling out of place, perhaps not. But, she figured, sitting down on the bed, making sure it could take the weight of her armour…well, it couldn't, so she'd spent the last ten minutes getting it off, which had been a welcome distraction. Ten minutes of focusing on getting her armour off was ten minutes that she didn't have to worry about wearing it in battle. Because that was what was coming. What was already happening in Rio. And unless something changed in the next _five _minutes, it was battle that she'd be joining. All things considered, she supposed just sitting on the bed, pushing her hands together to stop them from shaking, wasn't too bad.

_Really?_

Or it was. And picking up a small notepad and going through sketches, she also knew it wasn't the best use of her time either. And yet…

"What you looking at?"

She let out a yelp and sprung to her feet, letting out a second yell as her head hit the ceiling. Overwatch had always had a sense of colour and style to it, but function still came before form. In this case, the function was to save on space. And in her case, being as tall as she was led her to bang her head and fall back on the ground.

"Jävla, verkligen?!" she cursed in her native tongue.

"Sorry. Have I come at a bad time?"

Still rubbing her head, Brigitte looked at her visitor. Despite the visitor clearly being sorry, she couldn't help but glare. "Could have knocked," she murmured.

"I know. But the last person who had this room told me I could come in at any time and…" She trailed off. "Well, point is I can come back later."

"No, no," Brigitte murmured, still rubbing her head as she lowered her gaze. "You probably have more of a right to this room than I do."

"Debatable. I was never assigned personal quarters. An advantage of not having to sleep I suppose."

Considering that the visitor was a robot, Brigitte wasn't surprised. Which was about the only non-surprise she'd had since Paris. Yay for small victories.

Nevertheless, aching head or not, she looked at the construct before her. It was shorter than her. Fragile, even. Its body was white, and its face was a blue hologram that displayed a feminine visage, complementing its feminine voice. Winston had told her that her name was Echo. She'd remained silent, not voicing her position that the construct was an "it," not a "her." Her father had told her of the Omnic Crisis, and had made no secret of his continued resentment towards humanity's mechanical children. Omnics were "its." As soon as you attributed any kind of personality towards them, any hint of humanity, that was where you let down your guard against the wolf pretending to be a dog, he'd stated. Staring at the construct, Brigitte reflected that Echo didn't look or sound like a dog, but it could, among other things, fly and shoot energy blasts. Maybe not a wolf pretending to be a dog, but rather a falcon pretending to be a parrot. One that could talk pretty before sinking its claws into you.

"You look troubled," Echo said.

Brigitte gave her a withering glare. "How observant of you."

"Would it be better if I left you alone? Bear in mind that the meeting in the command room is scheduled for 17:15, which is only four minutes and forty-four seconds away."

The glare remained. "Aren't you a perfect little timekeeper?"

"Not perfect. I don't have an atomic clock. But my internal clock is accurate to point one five of a nanosecond."

"Right…" Brigitte tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "With things like you around, who needs humans anymore?"

Something flickered in the robot's hologram. A glitch, Brigitte wondered? Or did it actually have the capability of feeling?

"You tell me," the robot murmured. "Though of course, we do have a giant ape leading the team. Perhaps Pierre Boulle will be validated."

"Who?"

"Pierre Boulle. Author of _Planet of the Apes_, first published in 1963. Most people are familiar with the movies, since they've been remade so many times. I-"

"Yes, yes, I know about _Planet of the Apes_," Brigitte snapped. "And I think we have to worry more about Rio than New York."

"For now."

Brigitte sat there. The robot stood there. Their eyes, organic and holographic met, but if this was a staring contest, Brigitte knew she'd lose by virtue of having eyelids. But that wasn't what bothered her. It was the feeling that she was being observed. That somewhere in what counted for this robot's brain, a process was going on that was evaluating the biology and psychology of one Brigitte Lindholm, aged 24, currently a pseudo-member of a pseudo-Overwatch.

"You appear troubled," the robot said.

Brigitte snorted. "How observant of you."

"I do not believe this is hard to see. But may I theorize why?"

Brigitte grunted. "Sure."

The robot put her hands together, and began pacing around. "May I infer that you do not feel at ease because in light of Overwatch functionally being back together, you're the only member of this team who was not a member of the original group? That despite proving your skill in Paris, you still exist in the shadow of Reinhardt Wilhelm, and indeed, every person, human, ape, or robot, around you?"

Brigitte gripped the sheets of the bed. The robot stopped pacing, looked at her, and gave a wry smile. "Given your pupil dilation, body temperature, and hand motion, I think I can conclude I'm correct."

"I'll show you correct you…" Brigitte paused. She wasn't her father. She could use better language than he did. Instead, after a moment, she asked, "let's assume you're right," she said. "I suppose that means you were a member of the original Overwatch."

"I was."

"Don't recall seeing you in any of the old holo-vids."

The robot looked away. "I wouldn't expect you to."

Was the robot hurt? Jealous? If so, then Brigitte wanted to know what the hell its maker was thinking. Give a robot emotions, they might forget they were a robot, and worse, everyone around them as well.

"Regardless," the robot said, looking at Brigitte. "May I suggest we leave? If you're deploying to Rio, well…" She looked at Brigitte's armour. "How long does it take for you to get in and out of that anyway?"

Brigitte didn't rise to the bait. Because that was what it was, she told herself. Bait. This talking doll was acting like a human, and she wasn't going to play its game.

"Or you could-"

"What are you, anyway?" Brigitte asked. "An omnic?"

"No." The robot spoke with a tone that reminded her of mother. "No. I am not."

"Then what are you?"

"I am Echo."

"Yeah, that's who you are, not _what_."

Something twinkled in the robot's eye. "Who, then? So you acknowledge my humanity."

Brigitte sat there, glaring. Omnic or not, it was playing the game her father had warned her it would. They'd get under your skin. Make you doubt yourself. Lower your guard so that when they fired first, the shot would cut deep.

"Of course, humanity may be an incorrect term," the robot continued. "There is still a distinction between us, no matter what the Shambali claim."

"You follow the Shambali?"

"I'm aware of their teachings, I don't agree with them. I certainly don't believe in any mythical Iris, any more than I believe gods, goddesses, or spirits decided to one day make your ancestors crawl down from the trees."

"But you must believe in something," Brigitte murmured. "Why else would you be here?"

"Perhaps. But then why are you here, Brigitte Lindholm? Clearly you're uneasy about it. I at least have made peace with it." Her gaze shifted to the door. "Even if it's just filling in…"

Brigitte said nothing. Did nothing. Not even as the robot asked her if it could take a look at her notepad, before picking it up and skimming through it. Why _was _she here, she wondered? The simple answer was because Reinhardt was. He'd been there for her when she'd been a child, she could be there for him as he fought the good fight across Europe. Yet despite being thrown out of the organization he'd given his life to, he'd still decided to return. He'd been summoned, he'd explained to her at Eichenwalde. He had to answer. Back then, she'd told herself that wherever her godfather travelled, she was obliged to follow. She'd told her that then, she'd told herself as they'd broken through the blockades at Paris, and she'd told herself in the seconds before her mace made contact with Null Sector's forces, before letting her battle instincts take over. But now? Here, in a place she'd never been to, surrounded by people who'd been actual Overwatch agents, on the eve of going into a second battle that looked set to become part of a larger war?

_What the hell am I doing here?_

She didn't know. And the robot handed her back her notebook with nary an answer.

"Your sketches are impressive," it said.

But not without words.

"Most of them are impractical though, especially that one with the jetpack. But still, with some refinement, they could work."

Brigitte said nothing. She just held the notepad close, like she had her old cat. The one who'd made his distaste of jetpacks quite clear back in the day.

They'd never managed to get the scorch marks off the workshop's floor.

"Though if I may ask you something?" the robot asked. She took hold of the notepad again, and Brigitte let it, watching as it flipped the pages to the last sketch. "May I ask what this is?"

Brigitte looked at it. It was a black and orange logo. Like Overwatch's original one, but slightly different, and not just in colour.

"Just a little doodle," she murmured.

"A doodle that is suspiciously close to the Overwatch logo. Only with some artistic flair."

"I'm not an artist."

"No? Then what are you?"

Brigitte got to her feet, nearly hitting her head on the ceiling again. "Give it back," she snapped.

"Of course," the robot said. "I don't mean to-"

"I don't care what you mean," Brigitte said. "And I don't care what you think." She headed for the door. "Come on. Winston's waiting for us."

"Actually, I think you do."

Brigitte looked back at the robot. She was just standing there. Staring at her. Studying her.

"Excuse me?" Brigitte whispered.

"I think you do care," the robot said. "I think you care quite a bit. You care about how you may fit in with this team. And might I venture that you drew that as a bid to give it a new logo? A way of saying to the world that Overwatch is back, but not as it once was?"

Brigitte said nothing, not wanting to admit that the robot was right.

"It's interesting," the robot said, "how much you take after your father."

"Excuse me?"

"We were both in Overwatch together, though he kept a wide berth from me. I see that you've inherited his engineering skills, along with his prejudice towards artificial intelligence."

Brigitte folded her arms, this time glad for her increased height. "Omnic Crisis tends to do that to a man."

"Perhaps. But evidently his daughter as well. Children often pick up the attitudes of their parents."

Brigitte took a step towards the robot. "Take that back."

It stood its ground. "Take what back?"

"What you just said."

"That you take after your father? I can, but it remains the truth. For good and ill."

Brigitte remained in place. She knew, deep down, that prejudice was something to be overcome. Growing up in post-war Sweden, that had been hammered home into her from day one. Yes, there was the whole global war/near human extinction thing, but the remaining wounds of it weren't going to be rectified by being mean to each other, or so said her first grade teacher. And while there was some truth in that, she still lived in the house of Torbjörn Lindholm. A man who'd lost his arm to one of those things. And, as she'd realized as she'd grown older, lost a whole lot more.

"Why are you here, Echo?" she murmured, managing to stomach using the robot's name.

"I don't follow."

"Why are you here?" she repeated. "You're a robot. Null Sector are robots. Why are you on our side?"

Echo frowned. "You think that because I'm a robot, I'd automatically throw in my lot with them?"

"I'm just saying that-"

"No," Echo said, unable to hide her anger. "You're not just saying. No-one is ever _just saying_. Null Sector is reacting to omnic oppression, but it's doing it in a way that's guaranteed to fail. Because either they fail, and make that oppression worse as people lash out, or they succeed where their forebears didn't, and become oppressors themselves. They are, to return to that book we discussed earlier, the apes who 'blew it all to hell.'" She paused, before saying, "which is what they're set to do to Rio. And we're already late for the meeting so…"

She trailed off. Brigitte was still standing there. Still blocking the way. Brigitte didn't doubt that if it came to a fight, Echo could blast through her. If she had her armour and mace, maybe it would be a fair fight, but without both, she was only human. Mortal. Frail. And, she thought for a moment, fallible.

"Fine," she said. She stood aside and gestured to the door. _"Fine."_ She watched Echo head for the exit. "Förr du är på skrotthögen, desto bättre," she muttered under her breath.

"Kanske en dag, men din rustning kommer att vara där först."

Brigitte stared at her. "Vad sa du precis?"

Echo smiled at her. "I do understand Swedish you know. Plus over two-hundred other languages."

Brigitte scowled, switching back to English. "Aren't you just perfect then?"

"Perfect? No. But willing to do what's necessary, however imperfectly." She extended a hand to Brigitte. "If you're willing to have me."

Brigitte looked at the hand, then back at the robot. "You act like it's up to me."

"Who knows? Maybe one day it will be. Doesn't a squire become a knight in time?"

Brigitte kept staring at the hand. Thinking of her father. Of his mechanical arm. Of what the hands of machines had done to men over three decades ago. Of what they were doing right now. In Russia. In France. In Brazil. Wondering, in this analogy, who was more of the ape.

She didn't have the answers. But taking a breath, she shook Echo's hand, before following her to the command room.

* * *

_A/N_

_If you read this and asked "wait, did you make a oneshot based entirely on how the logo of _Overwatch 2 _is different from the original game's," then the answer is admittedly yes._

_I'm actually semi-serious about the idea though. Since Overwatch is reformed in-universe, though there's clearly a difference between it and the original one (lack of Jack and Ana, presence of Brigitte and Lucio as new members, etc.), then I could see it getting a new logo to represent it. But either way, drabbled this up._


End file.
